


A Treatise on Touch (or Lack Thereof)

by zipegs



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon Universe, Crack, Feelings Realization, Humor, M/M, Slice of Life, jim kirk could not be more oblivious if he tried, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: Jim is coming to the realization that while he may not be handsy with the crewin toto, the same can’t really be said for Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 66
Kudos: 562
Collections: #ficwip Valentine's Day exchange





	A Treatise on Touch (or Lack Thereof)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnlySlightlyObsessed1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySlightlyObsessed1/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授权翻译】碰还是不碰，这是个问题](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422706) by [Stacy_likegravity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacy_likegravity/pseuds/Stacy_likegravity)



> A Chinese translation is now available [here](http://www.mtslash.me/thread-313891-1-1.html) and [here](https://likegravity.lofter.com/post/1d4b415b_1c8dff94e) thanks to [Stacy_likegravity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacy_likegravity/pseuds/Stacy_likegravity)!

The room is utterly silent.

_The Trelleni are an incredibly proud species. They take offense easily, and they’re slow to forgive._

Uhura’s briefing plays in his head as the five councilors glare down at him with varying degrees of rage.

Just once, it’d be nice for an away mission to go as planned. Jim thinks it’s pretty unfair, actually, because compared to his competence when he first joined Starfleet, his ability as a diplomat has pretty much skyrocketed. But it doesn’t ever seem to matter; he says something wrong, or the locals have some hidden agenda, and it ends with phaser fire and ripped shirts. This time, at least, it seems like the Trelleni aren’t going to attack. Well, for _now_. But if looks could kill…

Jim is sweating under his uniform, and his shirt is beginning to stick to his back. He’s pretty sure his expression is some cocktail of terrified, confused, and whatever emotion embodies _Oh, shit, I fucked up again!_

“I, uh…”

At his side, Spock is still. He’s most likely trying to uncover some way to get them out of this mess without causing further damage—to themselves, the Trelleni, _or_ the Federation.

Jim’s still stuck on the first one.

“Our sincerest apologies,” Spock says smoothly, though Jim can hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice, “for our party’s misconduct. There seems to have been a misunderstanding regarding cultural mores; I can assure you neither the Captain nor any other among us intended offense.”

Jim opens his mouth to contribute something, but the shortest councilor (and also the most terrifying) narrows her eyes. “Get out,” she hisses at Spock, not even deigning to look over at Jim. “And take your Captain with you. We have no further interest in dealing with the Federation—not when it sends such discourteous, _handsy_ agents as its representatives.”

_Handsy?!_

Jim looks quickly over at Spock, but whatever reaction he may have, he doesn’t show it. However foolish it might be, he’s a little offended _himself_ now. But before he can put his foot any further in his mouth, Spock sends him a _look_ that tells him to keep quiet, and with a sharp nod, leads him out of the room.

Once the doors are shut behind them, he flips open his communicator. “Spock to Enterprise,” he says levelly. “Two to beam up.”

“That was kinda an overreaction, don’t you think?” Jim asks, just as Spock’s comm chirps back: _Getting a lock on your coordinates now, Commander._ “I mean, how was I supposed to know you’re only supposed to touch someone if you’ve washed your hands in the last hour? That was definitely _not_ in the briefing.”

“It was an unfortunate oversight,” Spock responds, pocketing his communicator. “We will need to update the Federation’s database of Trelleni cultural information.”

“And I am definitely _not_ handsy. I mean, come on! I only put my hand on her shoulder for like, a second at most.”

Spock looks at him out of the corner of his eye. It takes him a second to respond. “...I am in agreement that the contact was fleeting,” he says finally, which is an evasion if ever Jim heard one.

“W—Hang on, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Precisely what I said,” Spock replies, arching an eyebrow. “The contact was fleeting; I acknowledged my agreement.”

“Yeah, but you _didn’t_ say I wasn’t handsy.”

Spock remains silent.

Jim’s mouth hangs open. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “You think I’m handsy!” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You do, don’t you?”

Spock’s nostrils flare, and he looks over at Jim with an expression that shows just how much he thinks of their conversation. “Captain—” he begins, but he gets no further.

The world dissolves around them, forming again in the shape of the transporter room. As they fall into the chaos that always follows a mission gone awry, Jim is left with the niggling thought that maybe the councilor is right.

\---

“Bones, am I too handsy?”

McCoy doesn’t even look up. His attention remains entirely on the tricorder he’s currently running over an ensign’s leg, though Jim knows by now that he’s perfectly capable of dealing with medical emergencies _and_ personal emergencies without batting an eye. He also knows that most of the time he doesn’t see Jim’s _personal emergencies_ as any kind of emergency at all, and _would just like to go one goddamned day without being accosted in my own sickbay._ He can even hear Bones’ long-suffering sigh before it begins to swell in his lungs—and sure enough, there it is.

“Well, y’certainly aren’t _not_ handsy,” he mutters, turning to one of the shelving units to rifle through its contents. As he picks up a hypo, he shoots Jim a look from beneath lowered brows, then turns back to his patient. “Why, who’s asking?”

“Me!” Bones doesn’t respond, and Jim itches with his inattention; this dilemma has been weighing on him for _days_.He can’t shake the councilor’s words, and it’s starting to drive him a little crazy. Bones isn’t taking this as seriously as Jim had hoped (although to be fair, it’s maybe a little inconsiderate of Jim to bombard him with this in the middle of his shift) and, to make matters worse, his answer is definitely _not_ what Jim had wanted to hear. He steps a bit closer to the biobed. “I mean, that councilor last week—”

“Christ, Jim, you’re not really still thinkin’ about that bullcrap, are you?” The ensign winces as Bones deploys the hypospray, and Bones turns his glare on her. “Oh, don’t make that face. You’re almost as bad as he is.”

_He’s a sadist,_ Jim mouths behind the doctor’s back. As if sensing the snark, Bones whips his head around, and Jim snaps his jaw shut, pasting a probably-not-wholly-convincing look of innocence on his face.

Bones sighs. “Listen. If you’re that concerned about it, just try, y’know… _not touching people_ for a little while. See what happens.”

“So you _do_ think I’m handsy,” Jim prods, frowning.

“I don’t think you’re handsy, Captain,” the ensign on the biobed offers.

“Of course you don’t,” Bones grumbles as he picks up the dermal regenerator. He levels it at Jim like a weapon. “One week,” he says. “Hands off for one week, and then make your decision. Now for god’s sake, Jim, get the hell out of my sickbay.”

\---

One week.

He can totally do that. One week is easy; no biggie! This whole thing will probably just show him exactly how un-handsy he actually is. And whatever happens, it’s only a week. That’s not enough to arouse suspicion, and it’s not like he has to tell anyone! With any luck, no one will even notice a difference.

Okay, so maybe he’s not as confident in this as he wants to be. Which is stupid, because this is the tiniest, dumbest thing to be nervous about.

Jim pulls his command golds over his head and points at himself in the mirror.

“One week,” he says to his reflection. “And then you get to rub it in Spock and Bones’ faces.”

\---

To Jim’s surprise, day one isn’t the disaster he expected. With a cup of strong coffee in him and a healthy serving of eggs, he’s feeling ready to take on the challenge. He can’t wait to see Bones’ shocked face when he strolls into the sickbay in seven days and tells him just how well this week went. Plus, he’s eager to prove to himself that this is all one big overreaction.

He passes a few crew members on his way to the bridge to start off his shift and doesn’t even have to suppress the urge to touch them. He just greets them with a nod and a smile, or a cheery _Morning!_ , and goes on his merry way. By the time he gets to the bridge, he’s feeling great about his progress so far. 

Unsurprisingly, Spock is already there, just off to the side of the Captain’s chair. He’s standing straight, as usual, with his hands clasped behind his back in that precise way of his. At first, it was something that had gotten on Jim’s nerves like nothing else. 

The guy, he’d thought, could never _relax._ It made Jim nervous (although not quite enough to pull his shoulders back and force him to sit upright in his chair), made him second-guess himself when he was back in his quarters at night, certain that Spock’s rigidity was just another sign of his superiority, of his judgment of Jim’s comparative laxness. But he’s come to accept it for what it is, and even finds it kinda endearing. He likes it—after all, there’s nothing better than a Captain and Commander complementing each other, and their physical carriage is just one of many ways in which he and Spock do just that.

So yes, Spock is standing in his typical upright manner, and Jim grins to himself as he steps out of the turbolift and onto the bridge because that’s just one more tally mark on an already-killer day. He comes around the chair’s _opposite_ side—the one Spock isn’t currently hovering beside. It’s not like he has any desire to put a hand on Spock, but he just wants to make sure he doesn’t walk a little too close and brush his shoulder. It would really suck, he tells himself as he settles down in his seat, to ruin his first day with something so careless. 

“Commander Spock,” he says, as he settles his palms on the armrests (just, you know, to make sure they’re otherwise occupied), “report?”

“The ship is functioning adequately,” Spock responds, and then starts the shift off with a whole number of other, more in-depth analyses.

By lunchtime, Jim is feeling amazing.

Unfortunately, that’s also when things start to fall apart.

He’s made it through the whole first half of his shift without initiating so much as a high five, and he’s feeling pretty good about it all—the tensed-muscle conviction he started the day with has begun to melt into an easy burn, something hovering just at the edge of his consciousness without consuming him. He even feels inspired to eat the side salad his diet card spits out of the food synthesizer (courtesy of Bones, who’d made the adjustment after Jim had eaten nothing but pizza and french fries for a week straight).

Jim is just dropping off his plate and silverware, laughing at something unintentionally hilarious Spock has said, when he gets so lost in the joke that he nearly claps a hand on the guy’s shoulder. Thankfully, he realizes a moment before it makes contact, and jerks it up just in time, folding his palm into a fist, which he awkwardly hovers over Spock’s arm.

“Ha,” he says in an attempt to mask the clumsy way he pulls his arm back to himself. It isn’t working, if Spock’s expression is anything to go by. To his side, Sulu’s looking a bit perplexed too, which Jim supposes is a reasonable reaction to seeing your Captain give his second an aborted slap. “That’s—Yeah. Actually, you know, I better go check in with Bones about the, uh, medical report.” He flashes a smile at Spock, whose eyes have narrowed, and turns tail.

Only he doesn’t actually find Bones, and ends up almost colliding with Uhura instead.

“Kirk,” she says, arching an eyebrow. And, oh, if she’s reverting to his surname, this is not gonna be good. “That was weird.”

He jerks back to keep himself from bumping into her shoulder, and raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is something akin to innocence. “What was weird?”

“ _That_.” She nods her head toward Spock and Sulu, who Jim finds have pretty much recovered (although Spock does shoot him one last look over his shoulder) and are heading out of the mess hall together.

“Hm,” Jim says, pretending to think about it. “Not sure what you’re talking about. Sorry!”

Uhura rolls her eyes, but before she can dig any deeper, Jim sidles carefully around her and makes his own retreat.

\---

After the little lunchtime mishap, Jim is careful to keep from slipping up again. He’s on high alert, ensuring he keeps his hands to himself, and manages to pass the rest of the day without any further incidents. He does notice Uhura eyeing him a couple of times, but he’s careful to avoid her gaze, and tries not to give her anything else to fixate on—the last thing he needs is her figuring out just what he’s up to. Because she totally would, and then she’d never let him hear the end of it, and this whole _experiment_ would be for nothing. Also, she’d almost definitely call him out for nearly fucking it all up not even a day in, and Jim is not really in the mood to have his confidence smashed like a bug beneath her pristine boots.

The second and third days are much the same as the first—generally okay. Despite one moment when Jim leans in to look over Chekov’s shoulder and nearly rests a hand on him, and another close call in which he almost puts a hand on the small of Rand’s back as he slides past her, he finds it mostly easy sailing and barely has to curb any urges at all.

Well, with one exception.

Spock.

Jim is coming to the realization that while he may not be handsy with the crew _in toto,_ the same can’t really be said for Spock. He hadn’t realized just how much he touches him. If the past two days are any indication, then Jim seems to find any excuse to come in contact with the guy. He’s has had to stop himself from standing close enough to bump shoulders, letting their fingers brush when passing over a tricorder or comm, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. 

And, of course, because the universe can’t seem to give him a goddamn break, he’s been doing all this with varying degrees of success. The cautious hand-over of a mug of tea was probably pretty discreet, and he doesn’t think the way he’s started to tuck his hands under his folded arms would have aroused any suspicion, but he’s _definitely_ been raising some eyebrows with his slip-ups. Like when he lurched away from Spock after drifting a little too close, or when he went to grab Spock’s arm and turned it into a strange gesture instead.

Uhura is onto him—he can tell by the knowing purse of her lips, the toss of her ponytail as she swivels away from Jim and back to her station. And Spock isn’t all that far behind; he’s been leveling Jim with his own fair share of piercing gazes lately, and Jim knows it’s only a matter of time before Spock confronts him about it.

But no matter how hard he tries, Jim can’t seem to get his shit together. He’s got a handle on his interactions with every other crew member, even Bones, but something about Spock makes his brain short-circuit and his body act on memory. He wonders if it started out as an unconscious reaction to Spock’s rigidness (or conscious, on some level—Jim knows he’s not above being petty). Act casual with the uptight Vulcan officer; what better way to show how much that primness is _not_ affecting him than to clap him on the shoulder or nudge him with an elbow?

Whatever the reason, it’s become an unshakable habit. Jim figures that, besides the strength of said habit, it makes sense that he has more trouble cutting it out with Spock than anyone else; he’s just around him more, whether on shift or during mealtime or rec hours. They’ve grown pretty close, and Jim frequently meets up with him for non-work-related purposes. So obviously it’d be harder for him to avoid contact with Spock; the chances he’s given to initiate it are far more numerous than they are with any other crew members.

But as Jim sits on the bridge, watching Spock look up at the viewscreen, he can’t shake the niggling feeling that maybe, just maybe, that explanation is kind of a cop-out.

\---

“So how’s it goin’?” Bones is sitting back in his chair, lips twisted in a smile Jim thinks is meant to be knowing.

“Fantastic,” he says with forced cheer, and takes a swig of his brandy.

“Oh, really?”

“Yep.”

There’s silence for a few moments, as Jim tries to project his best, most gloating energy, and Bones scowls skeptically over at him.

“You’re a terrible liar, Jim,” he mutters finally, knocking back a mouthful of his own drink. “Alright, get out with it; what’d’ya do? Rub Rand’s shoulders? Smack Sulu on the back of the head?”

“No!” Jim’s a little offended, actually, that Bones thinks he’s failed already, when he’s barely halfway through the week. “I’ll have you know I haven’t had one problem yet—not one!”

“Really?” The word is nearly a drawl. Bones’ face is so disbelieving, eyebrows almost blending into his hairline, that Jim might laugh if he wasn’t so busy being insulted.

“Yes, really!” He holds onto his superiority for a second before deflating slightly. “Well, okay, there’ve been a couple of close calls, but nothing _really_ bad.” He neglects to mention the special challenge Spock has been giving him, because he knows Bones wouldn’t leave _that_ one alone. “It’s basically been a breeze.”

“Gotta say, I’m surprised,” Bones says finally, a smile curling at his lips. “Thought you’d be sayin’ uncle on day one.”

“Oh, ye of little faith!”

Bones points ominously at him with the hand currently wrapped around his whiskey glass. “Week’s not out yet, Jim. My money’s on day six.”

Jim groans and falls back dramatically against the cushions. “Y’know, your confidence in me is astounding.”

“Don’t take it personal; I’m a realist.” He knocks back the rest of his drink and looks into his glass thoughtfully. “You’ve made it a hell of a lot farther’n I thought you would,” he admits, and then looks up at Jim with an expression that has his stomach clenching nervously. “But don’t think I don’t know there’s somethin’ you’re not telling me. Now, I’m not gonna press you for it, but I think you oughtta consider what spurred this whole experiment on in the first place.”

It’s kind of cryptic, especially for Bones, and Jim levels him with an unamused look. Bones doesn’t back down, though; he just cocks an eyebrow and lays a hand on Jim’s shoulder as he stands.

“Hey!” Jim protests, shrugging good-naturedly out of his grip. “Hands off, old man!”

Bones rolls his eyes, but he lets his arm drop back to his side. “Good luck, Jim. Let me know when ya screw it up.”

\---

Day four brings with it its own set of challenges.

Jim manages to keep his hands to himself during shift and avoids any more awkward half-gestures, but he only does so by more or less sitting on his hands, which itself is pretty suspect. He keeps his fingers laced, or plays with the fabric of his Federation-issue pants, or scratches at his hair, and decidedly does _not_ think of all the ways he wants to reach out and touch his Second.

It makes the day go by agonizingly slowly. And it’s lucky that they’re cruising through the galaxy at this point, because Jim’s not sure he could split his attention with anything dire; the whole Spock situation is quickly spiraling out of control. Like a black hole in the back of his mind, it’s slowly begun to devour his thoughts, and Jim fears that, if left unchecked, it may suck him in entirely.

By the time alpha shift is over, Jim’s exhausted. He’s not looking forward to another three days of this, and if pride wasn’t such an issue, he would just call it quits now. He’s already sort of proven that he’s not handsy (in general, at least), and he’s _definitely_ proven that he can control his tendency toward physical contact. Spock, it seems, is just an outlier!

But Jim can’t bring himself to throw in the towel, especially not when Bones is still betting against him, so he resigns himself to another half a week of awkward interactions and near-misses. He’s in the middle of a silent, one-man pity party when he notices Spock has fallen into pace beside him.

“Captain,” Spock begins, clearly sensing that Jim’s focus has started to pull out of his own head and into the present. “I trust I will see you at 1900 hours.” It’s not a question, but there’s something a little tentative about his voice. The last words slope up in pitch ever so slightly, as though they’re fighting against some effort Spock is making to keep them level.

Jim’s brow knits. He’s not sure what Spock’s talking about—1900 hours? Did he agree to some meeting or briefing he’s forgotten about? Rand hadn’t mentioned anything, he doesn’t think, but he _has_ been pretty, uh, preoccupied today.

And then it hits him.

_Chess._

Just the thought of being alone in his quarters with Spock, separated only by a chessboard, has his adrenaline spiking. His first instinct is to call it off—he doesn’t want to endanger his little resolution—but he really enjoys his nights with Spock. And, he thinks to himself, wouldn’t Spock just think it even weirder if he suddenly canceled? He doesn’t have an excuse, at least, not one that Spock will buy, and he’s already come under enough suspicion as it is. No, it’s definitely riskier to back out of this than it is to continue on as he usually would.

“Absolutely.” Jim corrects his course a bit to the right, just to keep some space between them as they stroll down the corridor. “Hope you’re ready to get your ass beat again.”

“Actually,” Spock says, lips twitching into some kind of Vulcan equivalent of a grin, “I believe it was _I_ who overcame _you_ in our last match.”

They part ways quickly after that, leaving Jim a couple of free hours to work himself into a panic. If he’s had to suppress the urge to reach out to Spock this much during _working_ hours, he can’t imagine what it’s going to be like once they’re alone. Hopefully, it’s a… _performance thing_ ; maybe Jim just does it when there are witnesses. Maybe it’s all about being seen.

And maybe it’s not. Maybe he’ll be cooped up with Spock in relative seclusion, knees nearly bumping under the table, with nothing to take his mind off how easy it would be to reach over and touch him except the pieces between them.

_Don’t be such a baby,_ he tells himself firmly, as he finishes setting the board out on the table. _It’s just Spock_. _Just a couple of hours alone with Spock._

As if summoned by the sheer power of thought, he hears his wall comm chime. Jim lets him in, resting his hand on the back of his chair to keep himself anchored there.

“Jim,” Spock greets.

“Hey, Spock. Want a drink or anything?”

Spock demurs, like Jim expected, and they settle in to play. As usual, they’re well-matched, though their styles of play remain decidedly different. It’s a fitting metaphor for them, Jim thinks—if any stranger were to come in here and observe simply the way they play the match, they’d have a pretty clear picture of who they were. Spock is all logic, all rules and plans, while Jim does his best to outsmart him with the unexpected. He takes dumb risks that pay off as often as they don’t, just to rile Spock up.

And all the while, he’s careful. He waits until Spock has withdrawn his hand to make his own move, and sits far back in his chair, legs tucked beneath him. He doesn’t touch the board or grab Spock’s hand or kick him in mock outrage when he takes one of Jim’s better pieces. They’re little things—tiny, stupid motions that really shouldn’t mean anything. What does it matter if he lets their fingers graze or not? It shouldn’t be a big deal! Only it is, and that’s starting to freak Jim out more than anything else.

He doesn’t understand it; it hasn’t been a problem for his relationship with literally _anyone_ else on the ship. It’s not like he’s missing whacking Sulu on the shoulder or slinging an arm around Bones’ shoulder. But not touching Spock is like denying some intrinsic, primal urge inside himself. It’s like not letting himself have his morning coffee, like being forced to eat crackers when he’s starving for a steak, like being forced to walk one-legged.

And maybe that’s dramatic, but maybe it’s not. For as big of a deal as he’s making out of this, it _feels_ even bigger. Like there’s some truth running just under the surface of his skin, something he’s been avoiding all this time. Each touch, each brush has allowed it an outlet, and now that Jim has constructed a dam, it threatens to overwhelm him.

He’s desperate to reopen that channel—to let this _thing_ flow through him like an electrical current, to discharge whatever emotion this is building up inside him. He wants to knock the back of his hand against Spock’s, to brush their shoulders together, to hook a foot around his leg, to take his hand and lace their fingers together, to wrap his arms around him and—

“Jim.”

He blinks, and realizes he’s been staring at Spock this whole time, who is currently looking back at him, features pinched with concern.

“It is your move.”

Chess. Right.

How the _fuck_ is he supposed to focus on chess? A laugh forces its way out of him; his heart is pounding so hard he’s certain Spock can hear it. The board is difficult to focus on now, with his thoughts racing as they are, but Jim manages to make what he thinks is a decent move, though Spock is still eyeing him suspiciously. It’s not all that strange of a look for him to be getting from Spock, all things considered, but Jim feels guilty and exposed. His face is hot; he feels like his thoughts are stamped all over his face with red ink: _CAPTAIN JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK WANTS TO MAKE OUT WITH COMMANDER SPOCK AND HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT._

Just thinking it makes Jim want to put his face in his hands. Now that the thought is flying around in his brain, it won’t seem to stop. He wonders just how long he’s been suppressing this—and suppressing it well, he might add—because right now he kind of feels like he’s been blasted by a phaser set to something _other_ than stun.

And, okay, maybe this is hitting him a bit harder than he’d thought.

When he looks up again, Spock is staring at him. Jim feels the attention leap through him. His focus drops to Spock’s lips, and, alright! That’s enough of that!

He stands quickly, shoving his chair back and settling his hands on his hips in hopes of instilling some confidence in himself that he definitely does _not_ feel.

“Well, this has been fun!” he says, even though they’ve not yet finished their match. Spock comes as close to gawking as Jim has ever seen, but he keeps going. “But unfortunately, I, uh, gotta cut it short, so!” He’s already halfway to the door before Spock even begins to stand. Before he can manage to get a word in, Jim is slipping out the door with a forcibly casual _See you tomorrow!_

It’s only when he’s started on his way down the corridor that he remembers they were playing in _his_ quarters. But it’s too late to reconsider now, so he makes his way for the observation deck and hopes Spock doesn’t manage to find him.

\---

Day five sucks.

First of all, after the whole Spock-chess-feelings fiasco, Jim doesn’t gather the courage to go back to his quarters until pretty late. Thankfully, by the time he slinks in through the door, Spock has gone; half of him was expecting Spock to camp out there and wait for his return, just so he could ask Jim what the hell was going on.

But even without having to face Spock, Jim has a hell of a night. He doesn’t sleep well, too worked up over his little epiphany to turn his mind off and actually get some rest. Instead, he tosses and turns and imagines all the ways in which he could act on his newly recognized feelings if he ever worked up the courage.

Which is weird to begin with, because Jim has _never_ been shy about going after someone. If there’s anything he’s confident in, it’s his ability to...well, to _woo_.

_But that’s different_ , his mind supplies traitorously. _You were never really interested in actually being_ _with any of them_.

His thoughts twist themselves into a pretzel, leaving him with a headache and dry, itchy eyes, and barely an hour or two of relief. So by the time he makes it to the bridge for yet another alpha shift, he’s not feeling so great about the day’s prospects.

The crew notices—he can tell. They look at him warily, like they can read the discontent in the droop of his shoulders and bags under his eyes, and they probably can. And Spock… Jim can barely stand to look at him; he feels the intensity of Spock’s focus like a spotlight he can’t seem to shake.

He’s a little sloppier today, want of sleep making him careless despite the overaction of his brain. His near-misses are bigger, his avoidances more awkward. And he can’t help but feel like he’s got this huge, heavy cloud trailing him everywhere he goes; his feelings for Spock, now that he’s identified them, feel thick and oppressive and horrifyingly visible. And his awareness of them only makes him all the more desperate to hide them, which makes him second guess himself, and temper responses he would’ve given, actions he would’ve taken—which, in turn, makes it all the more obvious that _something is up with Jim T. Kirk_.

By the end of his shift, there’s an almost palpable tension in the air. Jim feels it coating him like blubber, like a magnetic charge pulsing out against the rest of the crew. He’s never been more ready to retreat to his quarters and have himself a nice stiff drink.

But of course, it’s not going to be that easy.

“Captain,” Spock says, and Jim tries to hide his wince.

_Please,_ he thinks desperately. _Please don’t mention it please don’t mention it please don’t—_

“Your departure last night was highly irregular.”

Dammit.

“Yeah,” he says, drawing the word out to several times its natural length. “Sorry about that.” 

Jim doesn’t elaborate any further, and for a moment, they simply stand there, silence bubbling awkwardly between them.

Spock is the one to break it. “Are you still amenable to our weekly sparring match?”

If there’s one thing Jim is absolutely not prepared to handle, it’s sparring with Spock. First off, it’d be in clear violation of his _hands-off_ rules. But even if he weren’t still clinging to that effort, Jim doesn’t think he could handle getting so up close and personal today. Just the thought of it sends his pulse skyrocketing, and oh, _shit_ , he can’t stop picturing Spock’s face set in hard lines of concentration, his sure movements, his leg against Jim’s, his hand on Jim’s bicep, his body hovering over Jim’s.

“Actually,” Jim begins sheepishly. Spock’s expression shifts so minutely that Jim barely sees it. “I, uh, was hoping we could reschedule?” He rocks back on his heels and scratches at the back of his neck, face a little too hot. “...I think I pulled something on the elliptical a couple days ago.”

Spock is quiet for a moment. When he finally responds with a level _Certainly_ , Jim is sure he knows he’s lying. But Jim forces a smile anyway and thanks him. He also goes to clap him on the shoulder, a movement which he turns into an oddly elaborate wave as he backs quickly away and makes his retreat.

\---

The next day is more of the same—if anything, the situation just keeps getting _worse_. Jim has taken to avoiding Spock (though he doesn’t spend much more time with the _rest_ of the crew either, out of fear they’ll try to bring his behavior up) and keeps his distance whenever possible. He’s started to eat his meals with whoever’s tucked furthest away in the mess hall, much to the surprise (and, he might add, delight) of whoever happens to be that day’s lucky selection.

Thankfully, he manages to evade Spock’s attempts at confrontation. Jim’s pretty sure Spock makes several of them, if the stance and expression he catches out of the corner of his eye several times are anything to go by, but he is well past being too proud to turn tail and run when necessary.

Unfortunately, on day seven ( _finally_ ), he’s not so lucky.

“Captain,” Spock says, slipping into the turbolift just before the doors slide shut, “There is a matter which I would like to address. I have attempted to approach you with it over the last few days, but you appear to be avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you?” Jim echoes, drawing his hand discreetly back from the _close doors_ button. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I do not believe it is.”

The lift hums quietly, then lulls into silence when Spock reaches over and halts its progress.

_Not good!_ Jim’s mind screams. He’s all too aware of their proximity, and how easy it would be for Spock to brush against him as he draws back, or for Jim to push his hand away and restart the lift himself. The urge to touch surges up like pressurized magma inside him, made volatile and desperate by the week during which he’s denied it. He attempts to keep his expression neutral and ensures his hands are tucked behind his back—a stance which, naturally, Spock is mimicking.

“I believe I am entitled to know the reason for your recent behavior,” Spock says.

Jim’s mind short-circuits. He _knows_ Spock has noticed. He _has_ known Spock has noticed—even before the big day-four fiasco, he’d seen the looks he got when he did his little _don’t touch Spock_ dodge and dance or had to redirect his hand partway through the air. He’s also noted Spock’s decidedly too-placid expression every time Jim’s canceled on him this past week. Because yes, he has come to differentiate Spock’s _normal_ poker face with his trying-too-hard poker face, and the latter is definitely the one he’s been dishing out lately.

On top of all that, Jim really doesn’t want to admit to Spock what he’s been doing. Or that their little one-minute conversation about handsy-ness a little over a week ago is what prompted this whole behavioral override. He already _knows_ it’s illogical and definitely _doesn’t_ need to hear it from Spock. And he alsodoesn’t want to engage with Spock in any way that will bring him closer to sharing his great, earth-imploding realization, because he himself has barely come to terms with it yet. He’s not ready to open its little cage and let it go prancing out into the open like anybody’s business.

“What… behavior?” It’s not his most elegant redirection, and he can feel his face screwing up with the effort to maintain the appearance of innocence—a feat at which Jim has never been overly talented.

Spock sighs. “I would appreciate if you would cease your ineffectual attempts at evasion.”

“I take offense at that,” Jim says with mock outrage, and Spock just looks at him. 

Jim groans. He screws his eyes shut and lets his head bang back against the wall of the turbolift because _Jesus_ , this was supposed to be a piece of cake!

_One week_.

Bones’ voice echoes in his head like a shitty prophecy. He should’ve known this would all fall to pieces, but James Tiberius Kirk is never one to back down from a challenge. Even now, when it’s pretty obvious that he’s been bested (by his own _self_ , of all people), he’s not ready to give it up. Why can’t anything— _anything_ —go according to plan?

“Look,” he says after a moment, and scratches at his neck. “It’s just—a thing, okay? It’s not you; you haven’t done anything. Really.”

Spock doesn’t appear to believe him, but they’ve been holding the turbolift for entirely too long, and Jim doesn’t think he can stand another moment without patting Spock’s arm reassuringly or putting a hand on his shoulder or leaning in and just mashing their faces together in a long-overdue kiss. He hurriedly jabs the turbolift back into motion instead, and it whirrs back to life.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jim says weakly as they near the bridge and the lift glides to a stop. “Don’t worry about it.”

\---

The only thing that gets Jim through the day is knowing that it is his _last_ of this torture. But when he gets back to his quarters and settles himself, the relief he expects to feel doesn’t come.

His seven-day no-touching stint may be over, but his confusion over his feelings for Spock has no end in sight. Is he supposed to go back to making casual contact and pretending he doesn’t know _precisely_ why he’s doing it? Should he continue to avoid it? Should he try to dial it back a little, find some kind of middle ground?

No matter what he decides, Jim realizes with dawning horror, it doesn’t matter; being around Spock is never going to be easy anymore. He’ll always be second-guessing himself, analyzing his every move like a scientist who is his own sad, stressed-out experiment.

Jim groans and digs the heel of his palms into his eyes. All this stupid week has done is land him in even _more_ trouble, and he’s pissed he decided to start this whole thing in the first place. If he hadn’t, he could be looking forward to another typical, non-threatening week with his crew. He could’ve had a normal chess night with Spock and a normal sparring match, and had normal meals and normal shifts.

Now, everything will be tainted by the knowledge that he wants _more_ from Spock. That he doesn’t want their accidental touches to be accidental, or their banter to be purely platonic. He’ll always be thinking about what they could have, and while what they _do_ have is amazing and natural and perfect, there will always be a part of him that just wants a little bit more.

His wall comm chimes, and Spock’s voice filters through. “Requesting permission to enter, Captain.”

Perfect.

“Come in, Spock,” he says, swallowing his sigh and sitting up straight. He attempts to bury his self-pity for when he’s left alone again, because he has a feeling he’s gonna need every brain cell he has focused on not messing up the last few hours of day seven.

When he sees Spock, he fights the urge to sink further in his chair, because that look spells business, and Jim is _so_ not in the mood.

“I wish to continue our earlier discussion,” he says, inclining his chin.

“Right now?” Jim asks, though he knows pretty damn well that the odds of Spock backing off are a big fat _zero_.

“I spoke with Dr. McCoy.”

“Spock—” Jim begins to respond before he’s even registered what Spock said, and when he does, he breaks off to gape at him. “Wait, what?”

“He would not enlighten me as to the exact cause for your abrupt shift in behavior, but I believe I gathered enough information to make that inference for myself.”

Spock looks as though he’s about to barrel on, and Jim’s head is already spinning, so he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds up a hand. “Hang on—can you at least sit down or something? Don’t just stand there like you’re giving a report; that’s weird.”

Spock sits. He doesn’t look away from Jim for a moment, and speaks nearly before he’s finished moving. “You are acting under the misconception that I, like Councilor Marella, view your propensity toward physical contact as a negative trait.”

Uh.

Jim reaches inside his brain for a response, but all he finds is static.

He and Spock stare at each other for a long moment.

“You do think I’m handy,” he says slowly, trying desperately to parse it all out, “but… you don’t hate that I’m handsy.”

Spock takes a breath and opens his mouth.

Shuts it.

“...More or less,” he says stiltedly.

“Huh.”

There’s another long moment of silence, and then Spock speaks again.

“May I ask how you intend to proceed?”

Jim’s mind is still busy shouting _Spock likes when I touch him!_ so it takes him a moment to put his thoughts into some semblance of order.

“Uh… I hadn’t really considered it,” he lies, shrugging. Which is actually partially true, because while he _does_ intend to go back to behaving exactly how he always has with most of the crew, he still hasn’t settled on what to do about Spock. And it looks like he’s not going to anytime soon.

“If I may,” Spock begins, “I would suggest you return to your previous habits.”

Jim’s heart does a strange stutter. “You… want me to go back to touching people.”

“I am of the opinion that it would put the crew at ease,” he says stiffly, and— Is that… a hint of green tinging his cheeks?

It emboldens Jim—or, at least, it shows him something to focus on other than his own mental gymnastics, so he grabs the line Spock has thrown and yanks at it.

“Spock,” he teases, drawing the word out past its natural end, “you missed my handsy-ness, didn’t you?”

Spock’s face doesn’t seem to know what to do. It mostly seizes up, kind of like it does whenever Jim makes an attempt at low-brow humor. “I have found your behavior this past week to be concerning,” he says. And then, after a brief pause: “I will admit I prefer the ease which comes with your natural tendencies.”

It’s Jim’s turn to blush a little, because from Spock? That’s a lot. “Yeah…” His mouth pulls up in a crooked smile. “I’ve, uh, sure missed that _ease_ ,” he admits, rubbing behind his ear. He _doesn’t_ say that the chances of it coming back again are looking less likely by the second. “Never should’ve listened to Bones,” he jokes weakly. “You know, I’m not entirely convinced he didn’t put me up to this just to watch me suffer.”

“While I agree that your efforts were unnecessary,” Spock says, flicking his gaze away from Jim to look at some indeterminate spot off to the side, “I will admit that I found this week surprisingly enlightening.”

Now that’s a sentiment Jim can accept wholeheartedly. Whether said enlightenment is a _good_ thing or not remains to be seen. “Well, that I can agree with,” he manages, conjuring a somewhat self-deprecating smile, but Spock doesn’t leave it at that.

“Are you aware,” he asks, snapping his attention back to Jim so sharply Jim almost flinches, “that, as I observed this past week, your tendency toward initiation of physical contact was far higher with myself than with any other crew member aboard this ship?”

Jim’s stomach flips, and his palms start to get clammy. He really hopes Spock isn’t about to call him out on this, because it’s one thing to be faced with your as-of-yet unacknowledged obsession with your First Officer. It’s another to have said officer to mention it to your face. He’s pretty sure his face goes through an alarming array of emotions before he finally manages to croak out: “I did notice that, yeah.”

“I did not realize,” Spock says, and he seems to draw his attention in toward himself, “exactly how great the disparity was.”

Jim makes a strangled noise.

“Nor,” he continues, “could I anticipate my own reaction to its cessation.” Spock is frowning now, and he watches Jim carefully.

Hope makes his heart pound faster, and his tongue darts out nervously to wet his lips. “What, uh. What reaction?” he asks.

“Jim,” Spock says, still sitting up straight as a rod in his chair, and then he leans forward—slowly enough that Jim could pull back at any time—and presses their lips together.

\---

“Morning, Uhura!” Jim calls as he rounds the corner and falls into pace beside her.

“Captain,” she drawls, an amused smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Oh, you know!” He jogs the next few steps and turns around so he’s walking backward, facing her as he grins widely and spreads his arms. “Nothing like starting off a new week!”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest, though she does shake her head in disbelief as they step onto the turbolift and Jim starts whistling. “I take it whatever _issue_ you tried to keep so hard under wraps has finally sorted itself out?” she asks, still smiling.

“No idea what you’re talking about!” Jim says, and steps onto the bridge.

Spock is there, standing just a bit too close to the Captain’s chair.

Jim does not avoid him. He walks right up to Spock and puts a hand on his back as he slides past. “Commander Spock,” he greets, letting his palm drag across Spock’s shoulder blades.

Spock’s mouth quirks upward. “Captain,” he says, and launches into his report.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [vegetas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas) for supporting me in all my idiotic endeavors, and a huge thank-you to [TexasDreamer01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01) for beta reading! And last but not least, thanks to [OnlySlightlyObsessed1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyslightlyobsessed1) for inspiring me to dip my fic-writing toes into the Star Trek fandom!


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